


Want

by 49shadesofgrey



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rare Pairings, oh they'll have sex too, otp problems, sigh, so i have to change that rating sigh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:18:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/49shadesofgrey/pseuds/49shadesofgrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t like this,” is all he says. She rolls her eyes and steps back from him, her arms crossed, toe tapping on the ceramic tiles of the school.  She eyes him, and he sees her do it and he looks off to the side. The halls are deserted, as they should be ten minutes into the third period. “I don’t like sneaking around.” She cocks an eyebrow in disbelief, her hands on her hips, perfectly manicured nails digging into the fabric of her shirt.</p><p>in which Boyd and Lydia are a thing and this is about them being a thing. comments are cool and give me life! c:</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I don’t like this,” is all he says. She rolls her eyes and steps back from him, her arms crossed, toe tapping on the ceramic tiles of the school.  She eyes him, and he sees her do it and he looks off to the side. The halls are deserted, as they should be ten minutes into the third period. “I don’t like sneaking around.” She cocks an eyebrow in disbelief, her hands on her hips, perfectly manicured nails digging into the fabric of her shirt.

“Well, you don’t expect us to do this in front of Jackson or Erica, do you? Because, while I’m doing this to him, I’m not that much of a bitch.” Little does she know he’s doing the same to her. She scoffs, with an accompanying eye roll. “You wanted this, didn’t you? So, what’s the problem here, Boyd?” She moves up to him, green eyes flashing up to his brown as she slips her hand under his shirt and scratches his skin gently. “ _Is_ there a problem here? If there is, you should let me know now.”

He doesn’t say anything; he’s too enamored by her eyes.  When she scratches him, he flinches as though it’s the sharpest pain he’s ever felt, even though he knows what a knife slash feels like all too well. “N-No,” he mutters between kisses. She pulls back, eyebrows up in a look of half-surprise and half-irritation. “I don’t want to do this with you. I want everyone to know you're mine and I’m yours.” He pulls her hand from under his shirt and slips out from under her. “Until you want that, I don’t… I don’t want this.” He picks up his bag from the ground, books from the period before still taking up its space and slings it over his shoulder without so much as looking at her. But she’s looking at him.

She watches him walk away from her and opens her mouth to talk, but nothing comes out.  He can hear her heart pound against her chest and it echoes in his head, but he knows he has to keep going or else it’ll be a point wasted.  She huffs, her arms returning to their position over her chest and shifts her weight to her other leg. _He’ll turn around_ , she thinks. They always turn around. But he doesn’t.  He keeps walking until he can’t hear her heart beating unless he tries really hard and she keeps her arms crossed until he’s out of her sight. She flips her hair and turns, strutting down the hall like a thousand eyes were on her, even though there was no one there.

They both get detention slips, but she talks her way out of hers, of course, bringing up her parents’ influence in the school’s affairs, including funding. He doesn’t have anything to bribe or blackmail his teacher with, so he just takes the little pink paper and stuffs it into his pocket before taking his seat next to Erica. He can see her looking at him, and it makes him feel dirty. She should know what he’s doing to her, end it with him for being a terrible person so he wouldn’t have to be as bad a guy as he could be for ending it with her first after cheating on her. But she doesn’t. She just touches his arm while the teacher’s back is turned and gives him a small, but caring smile, to which he shakes his head. The bell rings and before Erica can look down to grab her bag and look back up at him, he’s out of the room.

The day’s just about over and he thinks he’s in the clear. He made it through the rest of the day without having to see her, hear her heartbeat in his head. He follows the flow of people on his side of the hallway to his locker, opening it. He’s greeted by the picture Stiles managed to get of him and Erica kissing. It isn’t ruined like the rest of the pictures they took because both of their eyes are closed. It’s his favorite picture, and he takes it off of the inside of the door to his locker and folds it up. He sticks it in the back corner of the locker; it’s still there, but not a blatant reminder of how terrible of a boyfriend he is.

 Across the hall and down a locker row, Jackson has her up against the cold metal. He’s enjoying it, but she isn’t. All she wants is him to look up, to look at her. But he doesn’t. She watches him slam his locker shut, obviously upset with himself—well, it’s only obvious to her—and lets out a small, quiet sigh. Jackson doesn’t hear it, he’s too busy letting his hands roam her back, but he does. He hears it and he stops for a moment, contemplating it. He contemplates turning around, pushing Jackson off of her and taking her with him. He contemplates spitting a conflagrant remark at Jackson before showing him what they’d been doing for almost a month while they were alone in the halls. But the moment flits away, and so does his contemplation. He keeps walking, tightening his grip around the strap of his backpack. But she sees it. She sees him stop. And that's enough for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shit gets really real.

He’s sitting across from her at lunch when he gets her text. Two weeks later, and still no one knows what happens—happened—between them. She wishes it still happens. He wishes it never did. He feels his phone vibrate against his leg, feels the subtle movement all over his body and ignores it. She knows he feels it. She sees his face shift from melancholy to disdainful, and she knows he’ll read it later, no matter how much he won’t want to.

He does.                                            

_I do want that._

She’s the only one he likes texting. Everyone else’s abbreviations annoy him, or their lack of general grammatical skills just irritates him. Her texts are always perfect for him. He doesn’t know that he’s the only person she likes texting lately. Even if they weren’t doing anything. He doesn’t respond. He can’t respond.

The next day, she, very publicly, breaks up with Jackson. He’s angry, veins threatening to show themselves, fists denting lockers. But she doesn’t flinch. She’s used to it. She’s used to his anger, his threats, his heavy, albeit empty insults. He’s in the hallway as it happens, switching his books and grabbing his lunch. He hears it, but chooses not to listen. As he turns to go down the hallway, her eyes flick up and over to his for a sliver of a second, before Jackson even has a chance to fathom what she’s doing. He clenches his jaw, steadfast as always, and merges into the ever-consistent flow of high schoolers.

He breaks up with Erica quietly right after lunch. No one’s in the halls, like how it is—was—when he does this with her. It creeps up on him, choking him as he tries to spit out the arsenic-laced words. Erica’s big brown eyes fall to the ground, and he knows it’s wounded her like nothing else ever has or would. Erica walks away from him before he can even apologize.

She texts him again, but he just deletes it.

“I know what you’ve been doing,” Isaac appears next to him, leaning on the lockers as he slams the door shut the morning after. “Erica won’t get out of bed. It’s your fault, you know.” He rolls his eyes; as though he didn’t feel shitty enough, he had to get shit from his best friend. Isaac’s voice lowers to a barely audible whisper, but he can hear the message clear as day. “You’re the reason Lydia broke up with Jackson, aren’t you? And she’s why you broke up with Erica, right?” He only offers a grunt as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. Isaac tags alongside him, still whispering. “You lied to Erica about it, didn’t you? You’ve been sneaking around with Lydia this whole time. I knew I smelled her on you.” His blood boils, but he keeps his composure. “That’s sick, Boyd.”

He drops his bag and slams Isaac against the wall. “You think I wanted to do this? You think I wanted to hurt the only girl I’ve ever loved, who’s ever loved me? Really? Fuck off, man. I’m confused enough as it is. I don’t need you giving me this bullshit.” A low growl rumbles in his chest as he glares straight through Isaac before pulling his hands away and picking up his back. Everyone stares, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. She stares, too. And he does care.

He walks home alone that day. He doesn’t need Scott running behind him, yelling about his temper in public, or Stiles in his Jeep talking about how much he should’ve pushed Isaac _through_ the wall because it would've been _awesome_. He definitely doesn’t need any more stares on the bus. It’s not a long walk. It actually only takes about a half hour, so he drops his bag at the door and keeps walking. He walks for a while, but he doesn’t know how long. “Boyd?” He stops in his tracks, like he did when she sighed in the hallway. He can hear her behind him, her shoes clacking with every impact on the concrete.

“What, Lydia? What do you want?” She’s standing in front of him when he turns around with a huff. Her strawberry blonde curls bounce as she steps closer to him. She looks forlorn, hurt, and he looks up at the sky impatiently. “You really… you fucked up a lot of things for me, you know.”

She scoffs, physically moving back as she is taken aback. “You didn’t do much for me either, asshole.” Neither of them means it. She knows he isn’t an asshole, and he knows she didn’t fuck anything up. She reaches up to touch his face. It’s innocent, sweet, but he shakes his head. “Boyd, I… I want this. You. I want you.”

“That isn’t exactly how it works.” She cocks her head to the side and watches as he sits on the curb of the sidewalk, arms around his knees and fingers interlocked. He sighs, a heavy sigh filled with guilt and remorse and relief. “I loved Erica. I love her. And I think… I think I love you.”  His words aren’t directed to her, but they’re about her and she knows it and he knows it. She takes an apprehensive seat next to him and slides her arm into the space between his upper arm and his knee, which rests on the inside of his elbow. His bicep tenses at her touch, a touch so familiar and yet strange.

She rests her head on his shoulder. “I broke up with Jackson for you. Only for you. You saw him, he could’ve killed me. I know you saw it. I saw you watching.” He laughs in disbelief, and she’s offended. “What the hell are you laughing for?”

He shakes his head once more, inhaling the air of dusk. “He’s a prick. You broke up with him because he’s a prick. Not for me.” She doesn’t say anything but he looks at her and she looks at him and they smile. They’re both small smiles, acknowledging smiles, but smiles, nonetheless. He kisses her on the forehead, and she loves it. His lips are always so soft, so caring and sweet. She stands and so does he. He gingerly, timidly puts his hands on her hips and she confidently wraps her arms around his neck. They just stand there for a moment, ignoring her idling car or the headlights of those whizzing by them on the street. They just… stand there. He leans down and kisses her. His kisses are always soft, with conviction. He knows he’s a good kisser, and he knows she thinks so. She puts her hands up to his jaw and traces the bone down as he breaks the kiss. They stay silent, but his hands are still on her waist and her hands rest on his chest for a second before he lets out a breath and she goes over to her car.

“Do you want a ride back? You’re pretty far away from the house.” Her offer is kind, genuine, not dripping with malicious intent like many of her offers were. But he shakes his head. No words to say, reveling on the fact that his lips still taste like her lip gloss: strawberry. She smiles at him again, and he puts his hands into his pockets as she pulls away. He watches her drive off before walking back in the direction of the house. All he’s left with are his thoughts, and there’s only one slamming itself against the walls of his brain.

_She wants it, too._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shit gets more real but boyd is too responsible for that.

It’s another week and a half before he talks to her in the hallway, when _people_ are around. He knows she’s at her locker while he’s at his and he doesn’t even need to switch any books, he just needs to think. He just stands there, staring at the back of his locker, backpack on the floor. “We can talk in public, you know. It’s not forbidden or anything,” she whispers to him. “I want to talk to you in public. I do.” All he does is shift his eyes slightly to the left. He can see her out of his peripherals, but doesn’t turn around. “I know you can hear me, Boyd. And I know you’re not actually doing anything at that locker of yours.” He looks down at his bag and gives a little snort. She was observant, he’ll give her that much. He closes the locker and goes over to her. She’s fixing her make-up, of course, staring at herself in her mirror and watching him come closer to her. “Was that so hard?” She asks him without turning around, or looking at him even in the mirror. He doesn’t respond, just stares at the floor under his feet. “Talking in public actually requires you to say something back to me. In case you didn’t know how this worked.” He only really hopes she won’t make him learn what all of the things she’s putting on her face are. He has _a little_ dignity left.

“You don’t need all of that,” he finally says, eyes still on the floor. “I think you’re beautiful without it.” She looks up at him in the mirror and goes to turn to him, but he’s gone. She wonders how the hell anything so huge could be so quiet at all times. But she goes about her day, his words reverberating in her mind. She doesn’t see him again until math. They’re the only ones out of all of their friends in the Accelerated Algebra II/Trigonometry class, so she doesn’t worry about seeing Erica, whom she’s been actively avoiding the entire time. She watches him during class, and he feels her eyes on him the whole fourty-seven minutes. She notices how he struggles to answer questions, especially when he doesn’t lift his hand up to respond. Math has never been his strong point, he knows. He wishes he were in the Honors English class. He likes English. He flips to the back of his notebook and adds to the poem he’s been writing for her, about her.

When the bell rings, he takes his time getting his things together. He knows she’s coming to talk to him and as soon as he looks up, she’s there. “I’m tutoring you tonight. Be at my house at 7, got it?” is what she says before leaving the room and going to her next class. He doesn’t know what to do, so he just blinks absentmindedly as he heads out of the door. He sees her at her locker and, without hesitation, goes up to her.

“I don’t need a tutor.” He knows he’s bad at math, but he studies. He studies hard, hours at a time every night. “And I don’t need you to be my tutor.” She looks up at him, the look on her face screaming _oh, really?_ “I do fine in math. I don’t need a tutor,” he repeats.

“I wasn’t going to tutor you,” she scoffs, shutting her locker. “I was _going_ to blow you.” She gives him a smirk and pats his shoulder as she walks past him. He stands there, eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly ajar. She’s more pleased with herself than she should be, and she flips her hair back halfway down the hall.

He doesn’t talk to her for another two periods, and even then, it’s only a text.

_Really?_

She smirks at her phone when she pulls it out in her study hall. She knows he has the same period free, and she doesn’t answer, but she goes to look for him. It isn’t hard to find him, considering he’s sitting outside on the bleachers, as usual. “Yes, really.” She doesn’t actually go up the bleachers to sit next to him because she did _not_ wear her outfit to sit on cold metal. He just looks over at her, folding the corner of his copy of _The Great Gatsby_ and closing it, putting it into his bag.

“Oh.” She rolls her eyes. Oh? That’s it? “I guess that’s cool. Should I bring a condom or something?” She scrunches up her face, the thought _Is he serious?_ popping into her head. “It was a joke,” he huffs, not even having to see her face. _Yeah, okay_ , she thinks.

“I’ll see you later, right?” She bats her eyes at him even though he isn’t looking at her but up at the single cloud floating through the sky. He grunts dismissively, and knows it bothers her so he glances down at her and nods without parting his lips. “Good.” She whips around, curls ablaze behind her and strolls away. He looks down at his phone to check the time and sees he still hasn’t changed his background from another picture of him and Erica. He sighs a heavy sigh weighed down with questions and a twinge of guilt.

It’s 6:45 when Derek calls and says they have training and he doesn’t know if he should text her or just let her wonder. It’s 6:52 when he chooses the latter. It’s 8:47 when he, gripping his throbbing and displaced shoulder, makes it to her house with a pained grimace on his face. He chooses to press the doorbell with his free hand, even though it’s sort of limp and crooked on his wrist, and it sends a shooting pain all over his body. She answers the door, pajama-clad and pissed off, and all he can do is smile at her. “You’re late,” she spits. If there was one thing she hated, it was tardiness.

He rotates his shoulder as it starts to heal and just looks at her. “Can I come in?” He looks past her to see her father sitting in the armchair facing them and he blinks. “Your parents are home?” He voice drops to a whisper but the bass makes it sound louder than he anticipates. She cocks an eyebrow.

“My parents are always home. But they’re going out soon. It’s why I’m dressed like this.” She turns to go to her father and puts on a dazzlingly toothy smile. “Daddy, this is Boyd. I’m his math tutor.” Her father looks up at him from his book, over the top of his glasses. He thinks the whole thing is weird, but he sticks his hand out to the man anyway.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Martin,” he feigns. His heart is beating so fast he’s sure it’s a heart attack. Her father stands up, gripping his hand and nodding at him. He winces inwardly during the handshake. _Shit, it still hurts,_ he thinks as the father of the girl who was about to do something pleasurably naughty to him shook the hand attached to the arm that had been pulled three inches too far. She eyes them as her father eyes him and he just wants the huge grandfather to stop ticking so goddamn slow.

It’s 8:57 when he goes up to her room after her parents have left once they give him a thorough once-over like he’s her boyfriend or something when he’s just there because she intimidates him slightly and this is what she wants. But he remembers it’s what he wants, too. He sits on her floor because her carpet is really soft under his feet (she makes him take his shoes and socks off at the base of the stairs because “You can’t track dirt on a Sherpa, Boyd.”).  “What are you doing? We’re not having sex on the floor. That’s uncomfortable and I just had the carpet deep-cleaned. Why are you on the floor?” She’s sitting on her bed, Indian-style, and he thinks it’s cute. He thinks she’s cute.

“I thought you were just gonna blow me,” he states, running his hand through the carpet. He wonders what the hell kind of animal could even make anything this soft. “I didn’t think we were actually having sex.” She snorts and his eyes dart up to her.

“You’re such a little boy. Of course we’re having sex. We’ve been sneaking around for almost three months, why wouldn’t we have sex tonight? You’re here, I’m here, and my parents aren’t.  Don’t be such a baby, Boyd.” He’s not actually paying attention to what she says; he’s still very much occupied with this fucking carpet.

“I don’t have condoms.” He says it low, like he should’ve been smart enough to bring some but she laughed at him when he asked, so he didn’t.

“I’m on the pill.” She thinks it’s sweet, how embarrassed he is.  She can see the tips of his ears redden, even though his dark skin prevents any blushing he does from showing. She slides off the bed and over to him, straddling him as she puts her arms around his neck. “It’s fine, Boyd,” she smiles. He just looks at her, not moving or saying anything. He looks at her eyes. He loves her eyes. She leans forward and kisses him, slips her tongue into and all around the inside of his mouth.

“I’m not having sex without a condom, Lydia.” His tone is firm, though her extremely opened mouth kiss rattles him to his core. She drops her hands, rolls her eyes and sits back.

“Leave, then. Bring one tomorrow.” She’s completely serious and he knows that and she knows that he knows but neither of them moves. He’s still looking at her and she knows and he knows that she knows and she loves how he looks at her. All at once, he’s on top of her, the skin of her neck bruising between his teeth. It hurts for only a second because he only wants to mark her, own her and nothing else. She’s got her hands around his back, digging into the cloth of his shirt and pulling at it. He doesn’t do much more than that, though. He sits back on his heels and shrugs.

“I’ll bring one tomorrow.” He pulls her up off of the carpet and into his arms, meeting her lips with a kiss before she can protest but he knows she will the moment he breaks away. Her arms wrap around him again and this time his tongue is in her mouth, exploring the inside of her cheeks.  He lifts her up off the ground with as minimal effort as he could possibly need as he stands, and she lets out a delighted squeal while wrapping her legs around his waist, keeping their lips together. He lays her on the bed and pulls back so they aren’t kissing but their lips are just barely touching. “Tomorrow, I promise.” He slips out of her hold and grabs his backpack from its place in the hallway right next to her door. He hears her whine in protest but nothing more than that and he smirks to himself as he gets his shoes from the base of the stairs because he knows she wants it.

And he wants it, too.


End file.
